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Michael Borgesi
Antonia Borgesi Andreia Borgesi Anthony Borgesi Cristina Borgesi |affiliation= Gaccione Crime Family |hideg= |businesses= |vehicles= }} Michael Arthur Borgesi is a 45 year old Italian-American mobster known as a drug and weapons dealer as well as his enforcer jobs for the . He is a made member of the Los Santos based Gaccione Crime Family. After the fall of one of the newest soldiers to the family, Donald Pazzano, Michael was requested to fly from Chicago to Los Santos and replace some of his older connections. Early life Michael was born on 17th August of 1967 in Illinois, Chicago. His father, Francis "Frankie Shoes" Borgesi was paying protection fees to the Chicago Outfit to mantain his coffee shop well secured, at the same time being involved in white collar activities and running several gambling sessions in the business' basement. Michael's mother, Antonia Borgesi, worked in the same coffee shop as a waitress and was arrested three times for her kleptomaniac issues, shoplifting several stores. The Borgesi family was known as a wealthy family, Francis' successful activities and business kept the big family fed and happy. Living in the suburbs, both daughters attending college, affording every expense needed for their children's future. Both Michael's sisters went to the in Arizona where they received bachelors in Business Administration and Science in Environmental Science. His younger brother, Anthony Borgesi, believed to be one of the most intelligent in the family decided to drop down his education and follow Michael's steps into the underworld, later becoming a drug dealer and being convicted for it. In the Autumn of '94, Francis was believed to be an FBI informant, rumours had run the mouths of the superiors, later on a hit being ordered for Francis' head. The contract was executed by Polish-American William Janikowski, expert with explosions and a pyromaniac overall. One night, Francis and Antonia were to celebrate their 18th marriage anniversary and closed the coffee shop early to take their reservation at a new French restaurant that opened in town. Antonia was fixing her make-up inside the car whilst Francis locked all the doors, finally, Francis headed back to the car and shuts his door, the vehicle blows up, instantly putting an end to the life of both. Feeling superior "1989, I was sitting, calming myself with a chilly cigarette behind my parent's coffe shop. The shadows of the people passing by animated the darkess of that alley, an alley so dark that swallowed the light of the blessed ones. I hear a few struggling noises that come from the open end of that same alley; cursing, groaning, leather skidding against the concrete. Three men expose themselves under the dim source of light, one of them is pushed onto the ground and kicked several times towards the darkest corner of that alley. At that late time I was tired, my expression was haggard and all I need after nine full hours of work is that fucking cigarette. I used to think that one day I could be memorized for my good deeds in my community, that exact thought struck me when I was just staring at this poor man being savagely pummeled and booted to the ground, begging for mercy through all his moaning and shivering. We're talking about an adult here, an adult that probably works his ass all day long to feed his family. Was that the truth? Maybe I've been thinking too much lately. I hear "money" in that slur exchange, I'm sure I've heard my father's friends talk like that before. Long enough, my cigarette is over yet I smoked it 'till it burned my nails, that scene over there was really pulling my attention. The tall men in black coats stop the beating, I couldn't have a single glimpse of their faces, it's like it really mattered though. I flick the still burning cigarette between my fingers away and pull myself up untill I hear one of them trying to catch my attention. I was there the whole time, they didn't notice me, are they afraid of me now? "Are you Frankie's son?" - What kind of fucking question is that? You just made me saw you beat someone near death and now you ask me if I'm someone's son? Get outta' here. "It's me, Billy Zaffarano" - Billy fucking Zaffarano, couldn't it be anyone else in this fucking world. I took a step back and replied to him, yet startled with what I had just seen, or partially seen. Though, as soon as I heard his name I figured that the guy laying in that corner, almost spitting the guts out of his mouth wasn't really that kind of good adult I had in mind, probably another deadbeat that owes money to his gambling addiction. Billy approaches and then asks me to keep an eye on the guy, like if I had nothing else to do. He was still squirming in that dark corner, smearing the dark blood off his face with his leather jacket sleeves, I could hear several glistening from under there, this guy resembled my elementary school teacher and her irritant noisy bracelets. I approach him slowly, feeling almost sad for him being so unfortunate. Now this is what really surprised me. I crouch next to him very unharmful and supportive, trying to get a clear image of his figure when I get a fucking jet of spit into my eye "Fuck you, ya' fuckin' dago!" - Yes, an Irish guy. He didn't only ruin my expectations of his life, and he also insults me. Just when I think I'm about to show that cunt what the taste of my boot, I take a deep breath and step back to stand up, cleaning that glemph off my eyebrow. I point my index finger at him, and, with the most gangster cliche attitude I made up at the time I demand him to give me his jewels otherwise I'd go back inside to grab a knife and slice him to shit. He gave them up and, for a long while, it felt like I had achieved something in my life." "